BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power.
I must follow him. Curse him! (Exits after
ALGERNON. Enter MOE REISS in bum evening-clothes
and opera hat. Carries cane.)

MOE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.)
Down this street and turn into the alley full of
ash cans! I’m on the right track at last.
Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy!
Of course, she’ll be sore because I ran away
and deserted her, leaving her no alimony except the
dying che-ild. But I must produce a real wife
and child from somewhere or I’ll lose the $9.75
my uncle left me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why do I love
money so? Ay, that’s the question. (Looking
up at gallery.) And what’s the answer? (Points
off L. with cane—­dramatically.) We shall
see—­we shall see. (Dashes off L.)

The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the
time that the clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to
go up, so it is timed very slowly.

FULL STAGE SCENE

THE WRETCHED HOME OF GLADYS

A Mott Street Garret—­everything of the
poorest description. Old table down stage R.,
with chair on either side and waste paper basket in
front. Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up
stage C. Small stand at head of cot.

PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up.
He should weigh over two hundred pounds. He
wears Buster Brown wig and nightie that buttons up
the back. GLADYS is seated at table d. s.
R., sewing on a tiny handkerchief. She is magnificently
dressed and wears all the jewelry she can carry.
Pile of handkerchiefs at back of table within reach
and a waste basket in front of table where she can
throw handkerchiefs when used.

As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes
for the sixteenth or seventeenth time.

GLADYS: Five o’clock and my sewing still
unfinished. Oh, it must be done to-night.
There’s the rent—­six dollars.
To-day is Friday—­bargain day—­I
wonder if the landlord would take four ninety-eight.

(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs
more medicine. The dog biscuits haven’t
helped him a bit, and his stomach is too weak to digest
the skin foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless
he is, poor little tot!!!! Fatherless and deserted,
sick and emaciated—­eight years have I passed
in this wretched place, hopeless, hapless, hipless.
At times the struggle seems more than I can bear,
but I must be brave for my child, my little one. (Buries
face in hands.) (Business. Sews.)